


Fall

by Eastwoof



Category: Jersey Boys (2014), Jersey Boys - Gaudio/Crewe/Brickman/Elice
Genre: Angst, Bob Crewe (mention), Fluff, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Tommy confronting his feelings lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 02:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15985754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eastwoof/pseuds/Eastwoof
Summary: "Tommy’s always made it a point to to never look back. His decisions are made according to the now, the current state of things, or whatever you want to call it ... That’s why when he got into bed with Nicky for the first time, he never stopped to think about how far that decision would follow him for. Why worry about anything when he was with someone he enjoyed? Why stay the morning after when he knows that he’ll never look back on the memory?"Tommy suspects that Crewe knows about his relationship with Nick, and calls Frankie in a surge of panic.





	Fall

Tommy’s always made it a point to to never look back. His decisions are made according to the now, the current state of things, or whatever you want to call it. To linger on what’s behind you keeps you from getting anywhere, and keeping your eyes toward an uncertain future causes you to trip on whatever’s under your nose. That’s why when he got into bed with Nicky for the first time, he never stopped to think about how far that decision would follow him for. Why worry about anything when he was with someone he enjoyed? Why stay the morning after when he knows that he’ll never look back on the memory?

But today, on a gray day with snow falling from the sky and with winds pushing him in every direction, Tommy has no choice but to recount the nights spent with his best friend. As much as it fills him to the brim with shame, and dare he say _pain_ , he has to. He storms just as violently as the blizzard toward the nearby phone booth. The old thing is shaking in this weather, clanging loudly as if a warning. The guitarist laughs against this stinging cold. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever taken an omen seriously.

He forces open the frozen door and enters before any more snow can get in, biting his cheek when he finds that the handle is so cold that it burns. The dark scarf hiding his face falls and his breath is free to condense against the freezing air. He wonders if he’ll ever face such a tiring autumn again in his life.

He wonders if he’ll ever think about his future like this ever again.

After all, this phone call could throw everything he’s worked for down the drain, it could kill him and everyone he’s ever known if what he says gets out there. Tommy gambles a nickel for a chance at making it out a whole man, and thinks about how his entire reputation is currently worth only five cents.

The pressure increases when his stiff fingers dial an incorrect number. He’s trembling, and despite it being a relentless autumn, he blames his apprehension. This feeling of helplessness is what he loathes the most. He’s got no control, he’s alone, and he can’t even punch a ten-digit number correctly. But when he does, the phone only rings for a few seconds before being picked up.

“Jesus fuck, Frankie,” Tommy exhales.

“Tommy? Where the hell are you? Bob and I’ve been waiting for hours at the studio.” The tone is harsh, but the guitarist could only find solace in the fact that there’s someone to talk to now.

“Frankie, I need you to shut up and listen to me, alright? I’m in a bit of trouble.”

“...I’m listening.”

He winds his finger around the phone’s cord and straightens his back, swallows hard and can’t help but shake his head at this entire situation. Tommy begins by dancing around the reason for calling in the first place, feeling fear where bravery should be instead, “I know I’m late for practice, and I couldn’t exactly leave where I am because of this goddamn blizzard. I don’t even think it’ll die out soon. Shit, I almost slipped on the way to the phone booth here.”

“Phone booth?” Frankie questions, “Where exactly are you?”

Tommy hopes to God that he could drop hints and expect the singer to just understand, “I… I’m at Nick’s. I spent the night.”

“Oh. Are you two alright? Did the storm close you guys in?”

“At this point, yeah, I don’t think we’ll be able to make it,” the guitarist replied, “We, uh, we were a bit _rough_ with each other last night? We weren’t gonna wake up on time, anyway.”

“Did you two fight or somethin’? Why aren’t you using his phone?”

Tommy speaks slowly, his temper running short and his volume dropping, “No. We did the opposite of that, actually.”

“...I’m not following.”

Tommy’s grip on the phone tightens and the man himself considers just giving up and dealing with this on his own. But he can’t. Not when he’s finally built up the courage to open up and reach out to someone. So he opts to yell his frustration into the receiver,

“I fucked him, Frankie!”

The declaration is quick, concise, yet ruthless all the same. He spends the moment of silence between them to breathe deeply and to try to calm down. He’s just revealed one of the worst offenses on his track record to a man who probably couldn’t even comprehend such a thing. The _world_ probably couldn’t comprehend that Tommy DeVito got in bed with Nick Massi, let alone another man. He bites his lip, awaiting something like condemnation, or worse, nothing else but a disconnected call.

He hears Frankie’s voice waver after what seems like an eternity, “Jesus, Tommy.”

“That’s not the worst part. I think-- I think Crewe knows. And if he decides to run his mouth off to those hoity toity friends of his, I’m dead. The entire group’s fuckin’ dead.”

Tommy knows that Frankie and himself are in agreement. If any of this got out, everyone known to be associated with the group’s founding member would watch their careers crumble into nothing but ash. Tommy himself might have to go into hiding, and God only knows what’ll happen to the others. He suddenly feels the weight of it all, pushing down on his shoulders and sending an acute pounding to the back of his head. _He’s just involved someone else in this mess_ , he realizes, _what has he done_?

Again he’s ready to take another blow from Frankie, to get slapped in the face with another wave of humiliation. The response, however, is completely different from what he’s been expecting. Frankie in all his goodness asks simply, “What do you want me to do?”

Tommy is immediate, “I need you to talk to Crewe about it, make sure he doesn’t talk. He mocked me, Frankie, hugged me right before I got in Nick’s car. He told me he ‘understood,’ but I call bullshit.”

“In all honesty, Tommy, I don’t think he’ll talk. Not about something that could destroy everything he has.”

“We don’t know that. The guy hates me.”

“I’ll do something if I notice anything, alright? Just leave it alone until then.”

“Frankie…”

“Did you tell Nick about this?”

Nicky. God, how could he forget about Nicky? He’s just so used to leaving without saying goodbye that--

“No, I didn’t,” Tommy says.

“Then go. We’re all going to have to discuss this sooner or later anyway.”

Tommy hangs up the phone and immediately shoves his hands into his pockets. The frigidness of the season bites his nose as he inhales. His eyes close, his brows furrow, and within the darkness of his mind he can barely recall the times spent with the only man he’s ever been truly close to. Like a worn Polaroid, dull at the edges and cloudy in the middle, there’s nothing to hold onto, nothing to see and nothing to take in. But the feeling is there. He feels Nick’s hands on him, Nick’s breath warming the nape of his neck and the gentle sensation of their fingers interlacing.

It’s this sentiment that pushes Tommy to rush out of the phone booth and begin the trek back to Nick’s apartment.

When he arrives he essentially shoves the spare key Nick gave him into the lock. He opens the door slowly, each squeak from its hinges pushing Tommy more toward the edge. And because he’s such a gentleman, he shakes the ice off his boots before stepping inside. The aroma of coffee crashes into him like a train, enveloping him in a warmth that he forgot he missed. He’s quick to slide out of his coat and scarf in order to make himself comfortable.

The living space itself is small but orderly - a definite reflection of who Nick is. Everything within these walls serves a purpose, from the small books stacked neatly in the center of the coffee table to the framed photographs on the walls. Nothing is neglected, nothing is wasted, and there is value in everything.

There are memories to be kept.

Tommy doesn’t have to call out for Nicky in order to find him. He’s already in the hallway wearing red striped pajamas and a towel around his neck. His hair, almost always neatly combed when he’s in public, is standing up in several different directions that shouldn’t be physically possible. It doesn’t fail to make Tommy laugh.

“Shit, Machooch. Never seen you so… in your element before.”

The sudden entrance startles the fatigue out of the bass player. He jumps back, his eyes wide with shock, and does what he can to compose himself in the face of his surprise guest. “The hell are you doing here?”

“What?” Tommy chuckles and crosses his arms, “Not happy to see me?”

“No, no that’s not it at all. It’s just— You never come back, Tommy.”

“Wow. The one time I do come back, you make me feel like shit. Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, _princess_ ,” Nick rolls his eyes, “Sit down. I’ve got coffee brewing.”

Tommy makes himself at home on the small loveseat near the entrance. He feels cozy, comfortable, and most of all, safe. The word _home_ again comes to mind, but the thought leaves as quickly as it came, abandoning Tommy and keeping him a stranger to this welcoming ambience. He isn’t like the photos on the walls; nothing he does or thinks is meant to be permanent.

He spots his own face within one of the frames, though, in a picture of the band. His smile is so wide and genuine and Nick’s arm is wrapped around his shoulders. It must have been taken before they recorded Sherry, before the glittering suits and before they were all thrown under the scrutiny of city lights and film. That’s been his goal all his life - to be eternalized on the record player as a king, to be known forever as that guy who broke out of the shithole that was Belleville, New Jersey.

But there he is on the wall, wearing clothes he probably found off a truck and grinning like he owned the world. Tommy doesn’t remember when that picture was taken.

The man of the house returns, his hair back in place and towel gone. In his hands are two mugs of coffee, one of which he sets down in front of the guitarist. Tommy teases, “How am I supposed to drink this, Nicky?”

“Yeah, yeah,” is all the other man says as he slaps down six packets of sugar.

Tommy lets out a laugh, “Sit down, will ya? You’re makin’ me nervous.”

Nick complies and takes a seat across from the other man, sipping at his mug and locking eyes with him. His gaze bores holes into Tommy’s ego, burning any sort of pride he might have stepped into the apartment with. Gritting his teeth, Tommy opens all the sugars at once and dumps their contents into his mug.

“So what’s the real reason you’re here?” Nick asks, his voice low. God, it’s always low, but now with this serious tone he’s giving off it just sounds plain intimidating.

Tommy challenges him, “I can’t check up on my favorite friend now, huh?”

“No, I’m just inclined to doubt that Tommy DeVito had a sudden change’a heart.”

And he’s right to do so. Tommy’s eyes focus on anything but the man in front of him. His knee bounces and he picks up his coffee, downing half of it in one go as if it’s alcohol. Maybe this was a mistake.

“Well, Nicky, to give it to you straight, we’re in some deep shit.”

“What?”

His voice wavers and he keeps his eyes downward, “Crewe knows about us.”

Nick scans him up and down, purses his lips, and puts down his mug. He thinks aloud, “How could he…”

“I dunno,” Tommy shakes his head and lets it rest in both his hands, “There was always something weird about the bastard. I don’t fucking know what but he told me in my face that he knew and I don’t know-- We’re dead if he rats us out.”

“Oh, I was unaware of that. Thanks for letting me know,” Nick snaps.

It’s Tommy’s first instinct to become defensive, “It isn’t _my_ fault that Crewe’s been watching us like some goddamn Soviet spy, alright?!”

“When did you figure this out, Tommy?”

“Yesterday,” he falters.

“And you didn’t think to tell me as soon as possible, huh?”

“I didn’t think…”

“Typical.”

“Fuck you, Nicky!” Tommy stands, “At least I’m doing something about it—“

“And what are you doing about it?”

Aw, fuck. “...I-I told Frankie."

“Holy shit.”

Tommy begins to pace, hands shoved in his pockets and that headache only getting worse. “He told me he’d talk to Crewe of he noticed anything,” he adds.

Nick runs his hand through his hair, “He didn’t—“

“He’s an angel, Nicky.”

Tommy can see a wave of relief wash over the other man’s face. Nick is silent, cautious, glancing only at the other man when he thinks there are more problems to assess. This is more than what they both can handle, and all Tommy wants to do is run and find something else to concentrate on, wants to find a distraction. The bassist shakes his head and laughs only bitterly, “This group’s gonna crash and burn.”

Tommy scowls and balls his hands into fists. He hates Nick’s quiet demeanor. He hates how he intentionally says things to the point, always thinking about the shortest possible way to express himself. It’s so unlike Tommy who allows himself to explode at any time, who wouldn’t have any qualms against punching a guy he didn’t like. It’s like talking to a brick wall. There’s no actual argument with this guy - no yelling, no genuine spite… Tommy has to compensate for all of that by sharing more than he intends.

It’s what makes him want to leave every morning. Nick, just by saying barely anything, is capable of pulling Tommy’s vulnerabilities into light.

Before that can happen, Tommy makes a beeline for the coat rack.

“Where are you going?” Nick demands, standing after Tommy’s sudden decision.

The guitarist replies without looking at him, “Out. If I could meet with them, then maybe—“

“How are you going to go anywhere in this weather? Tommy, you can’t just leave, not when you’ve finally decided to come back.”

“The hell are you talking about, Nicky?”

It’s the bassist’s turn to become anxious. It’s not obvious, but it’s there. The way he swallows, bites the inside of his cheek, shifts his weight from one foot to the other… They’re all signs Tommy’s gotten familiar with over the years, and when he sees it a switch flips in the back of his mind. What exactly does he mean to his fellow bandmate? What other signs has he been ignoring, refusing to acknowledge simply because he feels like he should leave the past behind him no matter what it is? Why does Tommy have this much of an effect on Nick?

As if on cue, the man provides him with an answer, “You’ve gotta understand that I consider you more than just a fling on the weekends. I’d like you to just sit down, have a drink, socialize like you’re a regular person instead of a god to be worshiped for once.”

It scares Tommy, but only for a moment. It’s foreign how his heart flutters at the idea, how his cheeks feel warm and how his thoughts fill up with faith in the future. He wants a chance at whatever vision of tomorrow Nick has in mind.

The guitarist’s voice is hesitant, “You can’t just say that kind’a shit to me.”

“Believe it or not, Tommy, even if all of this goes up in smoke I don’t plan on just leaving you. It’s the group first. You first.”

“Dammit, Nicky.”

“Sit down and finish your coffee.”

He nods and trudges back to the sofa. The air is warm, the mug thaws out his fingertips, and he feels safe. Any apprehension he felt before melts away as he finally relaxes into the atmosphere, into what Nick calls home. His lips tingle as he drinks and reminds him of all the times he and the man before him kissed.

“Everything’s gonna be fine, right?” Tommy asks, his voice small.

Nick decides to sit next to him this time, and allows his hand to rest on the other’s knee. “I don’t know. But at least we’ve got friends we can trust.” If there's anything the guitarist could appreciate about that matter-of-fact attitude, it's that Nick knows exactly what he wants to hear.

 

"Yeah," Tommy whispers, contemplating whether or not he should put his hand over Nick's,

"We've got us, too."


End file.
